


Ally (or, The Girl That Saved Dean Winchester's Ass... Twice)

by hegemony



Category: Millennium Trilogy - Stieg Larsson, Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, F/M, Felching, Hacking, Hunting, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's quiet but not mousey, the kind of puzzle Dean can't seem to solve.  She could be anybody, an angel, a demon, monstrous and Dean would still be drawn like a moth to her flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ally (or, The Girl That Saved Dean Winchester's Ass... Twice)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's 'Blindfold_SPN' sixth round with the prompt 'Dean/Lisbeth Salander (of Girl with dragon tattoo fame): Wild one night stand'. I couldn't decide on Rapace!Salander or Mara!Salander, so I made an attempt to cover them both. Slight spoilers for all three books, but they're blink-and-miss-it. Spoilers up to SPN season 5.
> 
> Originally posted Anonymously on 18th-Jan-2012. 
> 
> Gently Revised

A woman is sitting on the hood of her car in the motel parking lot when Dean pulls up along side. She's leaning back, pulling out a cigarette and fishing a lighter from her pocket. Dean slams the Impala door closed, shouldering the duffel bag and reaching for the key to the room.

He looks back at her as he fits the key into the lock. He's usually not into these kinds of girls: hair shaven on one side and long on the other, cheeks too sunken, body like a teenage boy. She's wearing heavier eyeliner than anyone really needs and too many earrings and the nose ring is not suited for the angles of her face. She's hiding something, he thinks. 

But he's hiding things, too, he supposes. Everybody who stays in a place like this one has something to hide.

She looks over her shoulder at the Impala, and then her eyes raise as she plucks the cigarette from her mouth. She stares at him unabashedly, the heat of her gaze blistering. 

Without his permission, the curl of want arises under the bile in his stomach. Dean fights it, the urge he has to preen. He knows when he's being appraised. Even worse, he knows when he's being sized up for a fight.

There's no 'hi', the corners of her mouth don't turn up in a tightly controlled polite smile. He can tell he's not from around here by a long shot. She just lets the smoke trickle from her mouth, and goes back to her phone.

He slips inside, and closes the door, pushing the curiosity back down.

 

 

 

_What you're thinking you've found is wrong. Far as I can tell, it's shape shifters. No Kitsunes in sight._

Dean stares openly at the e-mail his jaw dropping, before hitting reply.

'You know what those are?"

It takes a few hours, but he gets his response. _Of course I do. I needed a break from the Soviets and Nazis and you look like you could use the help._

The thing is, Dean could use anything he could get his hands on, but he's not sure why she's asking.

 

 

 

He's in the middle of the hunt, against the ropes when a lithe woman walks up in too much eyeliner, too many piercings, dressed all in black. The shapeshifter's got him on the run, and it's all wrong but the woman picks up his shotgun from where it had been thrown in the fight, cocks it one handed, and uses her cell phone to pick which version of him to shoot. The shape shifter's head, wearing his face, explodes with the silver.

Dean's heart almost stops. 

"Thanks!" he yells.

"Be glad I shot the right one!" she yells back. Her accent sounds clear, European. When he walks up, she lowers the gun but doesn't relinquish it, and tucks her cell phone away. She picks up the motorcycle helmet from where she dropped it to pick up the gun. "Two more to hunt, yeah?" 

Dean wipes some of the blood off his face, and hunches over to catch his breath. He nods, offering up a hand. "Dean Winchester." 

She stares at him, silent. She reminds him of the woman back at the motel, as he counts piercings, stares at the ring jammed into her nose. She looks down at the hand but does not touch him. 

She turns her head, uses the muzzle of the gun to move the window shade, and looks out of the window as if she's heard a noise. He walks closer, trying to see what she sees but she aims the gun at him with a smooth flick of her wrist. He puts his hands up. 

"You're holding me at gunpoint with my own gun," he points. 

She pauses, and he can see the Wasp tattoo on her neck clear as day. He'd believe she were a Bond villain were it not for the lack of telltale villainous smile. "It's not your night, is it?" 

"Apparently not." 

"The shapeshifter's mate is close," she says, before putting on her motorcycle helmet and darting away. "It will want revenge. Lay low for now." 

Dean doesn't ever catch her, but he does find his gun on the hood of the Impala in the driveway.

 

 

 

When he gets back to the hotel room, the light in the room next door is on, and the window is cracked open. While he cannot see who is inside, he can see a sinewy hand, a long cigarette lodged between two curled fingers sliding through the slit, black-painted fingernails flicking off the ash. It's a careless movement, the kind that someone does so many times in their life that it becomes second nature.

Dean gets inside his own hotel room, only long enough to hear the motorcycle engine in the parking lot and walk back to the window, peeking out through the blinds.

It's the same woman who helped him out before. She walks up to the building, He can hear the door slam through the paper thin wall. 

She's with the other woman, he thinks. Nothing fits together. 

 

 

 

 

Shape shifters are tricky fuckers, the kind that know when to shed. The idea of getting them before they turn into someone else is great on paper, but they do it so quick, so privately, leaving the shell of someone else in bathrooms, closets, pantries. It is not a job to be taken lightly. 

Which is why when the girl with the cigarettes, shaven long hair and the body like a teenage boy catches and tortures one when it sheds, Dean just stands there in rather voyeuristic awe, in the shadows. The shapeshifter had started to look like her, the high cheekbones, the dark eyes, the two nose rings and gorgeous lips, but the rest of the thing's body still retained the shape of a cop, two counties over. Her knife clears the dead skin away, looks at the facsimile of her own body with grotesque fascination. 

She turns around, her hand poised to strike with the knife bloodied by the Shapeshifter, and everything's gone sideways in Dean's head. He pulls out his gun, holds it low in his hand. 

Her accent's thicker than the other one, the paler one. Her voice sounds like she's convinced herself she must be brave, "What do you want?"

Dean lowers the gun even more, but she tucks the knife in, holds it against Dean's throat and snatches the gun out of his hand, flicking the safety off and then on again before securing it in the back of her pants. He can feel the disturbing smear of blood slip-sliding against his neck, and for the first time in a while he gets rather nervous about a situation he's found himself in, knowing that Sam's no longer around to swoop in from the alley if he's not out in 5 minutes. 

"I'd tracked that thing over here, that's all. I'm not here for you," he says, raising his hands. If he plays his cards right, he can snatch the gun back, subdue her and get out of here alive. If he doesn't, well. 

"I won't let you bring it anywhere. Not while it has my face," She says. Her eyes are determined and her face remains stoic, she's not like any hunter that Dean's ever met before. She's dressed like a Michael Cera character, petite and androgynous, for Christ's sake. Shit's already tits up. 

"Sorry to tell you, lady, but that thing's dead. It's gonna be wearing your face for a while."

She pauses, but does not let up on the pressure against Dean's neck. Anyone else and he'd have turned the tide by now, ripped the knife from her hands, but no, she's serious, ready to cut him open the second he flinches. 

"There are always benefits to being dead, for a time," she muses, tucks the knife under her arm once more and knocks him clear out with her other hand. 

The ground hits fast.

 

 

 

_I can find Sam, if you want._

Dean blinks, looks up at the wall dividing them. He grabs the glass of Whiskey, drains it in one swallow. He opens up another e-mail window, types out a reply. 'I already know where he is. Hard to hack into hell.'

There is no reply for that.

 

 

 

They don't save him again, but he tracks and kills the last shapeshifter. It's almost easy, compared to the fight he got into with the first and the way the second was halfway trough transforming. Still, he wishes they would have come, if only so he could ask that one basic question again. 

He comes in late. He's antsy-itchy and angry. The pale one's standing outside, smoking a cigarette, sitting on the ground. She isn't wearing anything particularly rugged, even though it's cold outside. Just a faded t-shirt and some cigarette jeans that are loose in the waist. He hesitates, but something tells him he should. He fiddles in his pockets, like he doesn't already know where his room key is.

"Where's your bike?" he asks. 

She shrugs, looks up at him through heavily lidded eyes. "Wasn't mine. Borrowed it." 

"Stole it." 

"If you want to call it that," She says. "Only needed it for a bit. Gave it back." 

"Your partner stole my gun," he says, casually.

She smirks at that, stubbing out her cigarette. She rolls up to her feet, pushing her hands into her pockets once more to fish out her room key as well. Her mouth is a lush, deep line, but she looks like she'll kick his ass if he comes on too strong.

"Are you expecting an apology?" She asks. 

"I'm expecting it back," he offers. "You have to admit this whole 'I don't trust you' thing's getting a bit old." 

"I'm sure when you get your way enough, everything gets a bit old," she shrugs. 

"It's just an heirloom, is all. Family. All I got left of it," he hesitates. "I lost it fair, I get that. But I want it back." 

"Dean," she says, and it sounds ice cold, enough to stop any man in his tracks. He presses his head to the door, dirty cold metal moonlighting as wood.

"Tell me your name, I want that much," he groans. 

"Lisbeth Salander," she coughs out, getting up to her feet. Her tongue cascades over her last name, and it takes everything he has not to be weary. She could be anybody, an angel, a demon, monstrous herself but for once, he can see pinpricks of emotion in her eyes, the ghost of a smile on her face. She isn't transparent, not by a long shot, but progress is progress. 

"Was that so hard?" he asks. 

She stifles her laugh, and slips into her room.

She doesn't close the door behind her.

It could be a trap, Dean thinks. The girl really isn't his type at all and the last thing he needs is wobbly consent after all that he's been through today, trying to catch a Goliath at his own game.

"Are you coming, Dean?" she asks, her fingers curled around the edges of the door. She's inches away from closing it, the window to satiate his curiosity.

Dean bites his lip. Ever since Sam…y'know, Dean doesn't really make a practice of looking gift horses in the mouth. 

 

 

 

Lisbeth's lips are soft, knowing. She doesn't kneel to suck his cock, only rips off her top and shrugs from her jeans. One of her nipples has a barbell through it. She stands defiant, like she's not sure this is what she wants but she'll do it because she's curious. Dean's not sure. 

He kisses her once more, licking deep into her mouth, coaxing her to reciprocate. When she does, her hands fly up and frame the angles of his face like she's kissing to kill, clutching him tight. There's a part of the story he knows he must be missing. 

He leans back onto the bed for her, wriggling his jeans off. She shuffles and shakes herself down to nude, too, her shapeliness a performance now, as she crawls over him. They kiss once more, deeper this time and she tastes like smoke and coffee. 

He isn't sure when the condom got on, but she pushes her body backward, writhes against him as he slips inside her and his hands come up gently to wrap around her. She flexes her back, and he can see the matching tattoo on her neck, a wasp once more. 

"Please," he groans, but she's silent, pleasuring herself with him, clenching and warm and wet and he knows its ungentlemanly to rut against her, not when this is much more fragile than any good one night stand should be. She cries out as she slides against the right spot, clenching around him once more and his body arches, unable to stop himself. 

He doesn't roll her over, simply allows himself to lose control with her, their bodies chasing each other. She arches her back and stills, stops, comes. His hips work of their own accord and he clutches her tight to him, gives in to coming, too. 

She rolls off him, and promptly chirps, "Good night." 

She does not sound any happier than she was before. He frowns at that before realizing that he really isn't any less frustrated than he was before, either.

 

 

 

He wakes in the middle of the night from a dream about where Sam must be, burning alive in the cage or tortured on the rack. The bed is empty. 

She's sitting on the windowsill, naked from the waist down. She's watching him, and shoves the cigarette into her mouth with neurotic flair. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she says, as if she means it. "Your gun's in your room. It's laying on your bed." 

"What about the other girl?" Dean asks. 

"Other girl…" She turns, looking out of the crack in the drapes. "You're delusional. It's only ever been me." 

"There was another girl here, she wasn't you." he grits out. She flicks the ash off the cigarette, reaches for her cell phone. "Lisbeth?"

"There's only the one of me," she says. Dean isn't sure how. 

He gets up out of bed, walks over, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her. Her lips are dry, and she tastes tobacco-stale. For a few seconds, she freezes, twirls the ember of the cigarette butt in her fingers like she'll use it to burn him, shock him away. But a thumb caressing across her cheekbone has her sighing in his mouth and he isn't a ladies' man here, more like an ally in an invisible war. 

He drops to his knees, parts her legs and drapes them over his shoulders, and brings his face down to her cunt, teasing at the places her legs connect to her torso. Her thighs are strong, defined and she stares at him, almost alien in how she tries to catalogue him. 

"Finish your cigarette," he suggests. "This will be a while." 

He kneels there, eating her until she's trembling from one stutter-stop orgasm before surging into another. Her thighs have locked around the back of his neck, her back bowing out, her toes curling. He grabs her shirt in a moment of need, rips the seam at the side and as she rips it over the top of her head, her thighs parting. She pushes him back a little, using the discard shirt to wipe the sweat and taste of her from the corners of his mouth.

He wonders if she'll cleave his mouth open and shove the fabric right in, almost wants that for the solid ground it would provide. Instead, she moves like water from the ledge into his lap, legs still draped on his shoulders, rubbing the head of his cock against her slick-wet clit. 

And it's a bad idea, but she's taking him in bare, one fell swoop, and he's clutching at her, using the well-defined trunk of her body as something to hold onto as the two of them thrust into hitched breath, insanity laden completion. She presses her forehead against his, her mouth falling open and god, this isn't right but it's good, the kind of catharsis that will make Dean blush remembering it for days. 

He doesn't even think after he makes her come, simply brings her to the bed and licks her clean, finds every nook and puts his mouth there, does it slow so she'll know it's worship and not consumption. She doesn't have the same body she had earlier, no nipple rings or soft angles, it's all layers of muscle like a weapon against something Dean can't imagine. He still doesn't know what she is, who she is, how she changes so quickly, but he gorges on the taste of her until he tires himself out.

She rolls herself over, the muscular line of her back otherworldly in the dim light of the room. If he cants his head, he sees the tattoo, the illusion of ripped skin, scales emergent. Her body's still a tight line, on the defense, but he can see how it has allowed him reprieve, too. He promises himself to indulge in this until he gets dismissed. 

"Thanks for the gun back," he starts.

"You do not owe me any favors," she says. "It was pretty. I would have liked keeping it every much. But you don't keep unsentimental things around for very long." 

"It's my biggest fault, Lisbeth." 

"It is," she says and lays still for a long time. Dean knows she isn't asleep.

 

 

 

 

In the morning, a woman with blonde hair emerges from the bathroom. She looks echoes away from Lisbeth. Either Lisbeth, any Lisbeth. No, she's a housewife, a business woman, a ghost. She turns her head, and the stinger of her wasp tattoo peeks out from the disguise but even it looks different. 

'I'm getting it removed,' this woman could coquettishly say, bashful and demure and everything Lisbeth is not. 'You know how wild nights in Vegas can get.' 

Her weekend bag is tightly packed, her keys in her hand. She gives him another appraising look, scrutinizing the planes of his naked body. Often times, Dean would clamor to cover himself up at least to the waist, find his jeans or play it off with a joke. 

He doesn't this time. 

She shrugs on a coat unlike anything he has seen her wear in the last few days, and then she's out of the door, out of his life. 

Dean finds himself scrambling for any semblance of reality, so the best he can do is check his phone. There's a text message, unidentified number. 

_I won't come, but if you need to talk..._

Dean hacks out a response with two thumbs and bleary eyes. 'Why would you listen?'

_Because no one rots the same way._

The gun has been field stripped on Dean's bed once he gets back to his room. It's been lain out piece by meticulous piece. It smells of fresh gun oil and there's a swath of black lipstick lip print on the pin. 

Dean does not wipe it off.


End file.
